


Sunstruck

by Destina



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olyver had his wits and Littlefinger's trust, and that was all he needed -- until Prince Oberyn entered the picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunstruck

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for season 4. Olyver is a prostitute and spy working for Littlefinger. He's a character invented for the show (apparently different from the Olyvar Frey of the books) and there's not much canon about him, so I have gone wild. (Also, it's a toss-up how to spell his name, but I've gone with the GoT wiki version.) Many thanks to Asya Ana for beta and encouragement!

Oberyn Martell was the sort of man who liked to take what he wanted, when he wanted it. For that reason, Olyver raised his own price beyond the rafters and to the very skies, daring Oberyn to pay it. He did so again and again, and as a result, Olyver heard the pleasing rattle of Gold Dragons in his mind every time Oberyn fucked him those first few heady evenings. 

In time, Ellaria Sand took one of Littlefinger's red-headed whores for her personal pet and practiced all sorts of fascinating perversions with her. It seemed to amuse Oberyn to watch them together, a twining mass of beautiful limbs, but as with all things, eventually his attention waned. He found diversions of his own in twos and threes, and sometimes a singularly beautiful girl, but he never returned to the same bed twice - except for Olyver. 

Olyver supposed he should be flattered, but his mind was always engaged in the less carnal but equally pleasurable pursuit of information, listening for hidden messages in Oberyn and Ellaria's frank talk. Even so, it was difficult to focus on such trivial things when Oberyn's hands dragged over his body. "Open up for me, boy," he would say, a twinkle in his eye at the way Olyver's body obeyed his commands. So distracting, the drag of his tongue up Olyver's spine, and the inexorable roll of his hips as he pushed deep inside Olyver's body. Olyver was supposed to be beyond the pure delight of bodies crushed together - it was why Littlefinger had chosen him above all the others; his mind was always whirling, like a millstone whittling down the grain - but Oberyn's teeth grazing his collarbone made it hard for him to think clearly. 

He had never been with a prince before Oberyn. That much had not been artifice on his part, and now he was quite sure he was ruined for the rest of the clientele. The thought made him push back against Oberyn's hands to see the snap of danger in his eyes, feel the strength in his hands as he shoved Olyver back against the cushions and held him there. 

"You were not bred for fighting," Oberyn growled, taking and taking, and Olyver met his eyes in challenge. There were all kinds of battles, and King's Landing was a city built for war. 

In the evenings, while Oberyn and Ellaria compared notes, Oberyn's hand always moved from the slight curve of Olyver's hip to the rise of Ellaria's, but Oberyn's eyes lingered on Olyver's skin. They traced the path of his fingertips as surely as if he had left trails of ink and ash behind. That speculative look of desire was a piece of useful information. Lord Baelish would expect Olyver to turn it to his advantage. 

But Lord Baelish was far away, across the Narrow Sea, and Olyver would decide what to write in the ledger of accounts. 

**

There were other clients, of course. There was always the business to run, and the agendas to consider. Lord Baelish had been quite specific on that point. 

"Again," Loras demanded, his greedy hands roaming across Olyver's body. Olyver held back an impatient sigh and applied himself to the task before him. Loras was pretty enough, with his bright smile and eager tongue, but he had nothing to offer in terms of the information Littlefinger prized above all else. Loras was kept outside of the circle now and was privy to nothing useful, save the barbed wit of Cersei Lannister's courtiers. 

Olyver took him in hand, thinking of the first time he'd squired for Loras and then bedded him. It had been too easy. It was always easy with the young ones in hiding, even the ones who knew they were mortal pawns. Loras sometimes verged on criminally stupid, presuming that the walls of Littlefinger's brothel would protect his open secrets because he was a Tyrell. Proof could always be obtained, and Olyver was quite well aware that his cock might be the key to Loras' eventual destruction. It was hard to say where Loras would land in the game which stretched before him. 

For that matter, it was hard for Olyver to predict where he would land, himself. He was not unaware of the irony in his situation. 

"You're not paying attention," Loras whispered. Olyver kissed him silent, thinking all the while that the Knight of Flowers was in danger of becoming defined by what he had lost rather than what he had gained. The Lannister woman would have him killed before she would marry him, and tournament victories mattered not at all when one was at the bottom of a pit of vipers. 

Unfortunate, yet inevitable, like so much of what passed for politics in Westeros. 

He finished quickly, though Loras seemed not to care, coming and gasping like a man in his death throes. Olyver smoothed his hair back and waited for Loras to release his death grip on Olyver's hips. He had hoped once to see some of that vaunted strength in Loras' touch, but what lay beneath him was just a boy, whose smiles were like honey, and who was starved for affection. 

Olyver had his wits and Littlefinger's trust; he had no need of affection. 

**

Storms gathered over King's Landing, sending the people into their hovels and holes, their palaces and keeps, while the rain battered the empty streets. It was as good a time as any to send dispatches to the Vale and check the figures. Olyver ensured he was not on offer while the clouds lingered, so he could apply himself to the keeping of Littlefinger's accounts. 

Soon enough the desk was littered with coded pages, and the box of coin rested heavy beneath Olyver's feet. It never troubled Olyver that Littlefinger's expectations were so high or that a reckoning might come if they were not met. He was prepared for any eventuality; he had been trained well. 

A tap at the door, and Sarai said, "Sir, Prince Oberyn is here and he has asked for you." 

"Give them the usual girls and see if the prince wants any of the new boys." 

"No, sir, he is alone, and he asked for you. Specifically." 

"Don't call me sir," Olyver said sharply, "I am no different than you are. And tell the prince I am not on offer today." 

Sarai gave him a dubious look, but she closed the door gently behind her. 

Oberyn had a way of bursting into rooms as if all Littlefinger's worldly goods belonged to him. Olyver tried to keep from smiling as he listened to Oberyn's noisy progress through the brothel, across three showing rooms and a long corridor, ignoring Littlefinger's expensive sell-swords completely. A moment later, he threw open the doors to Littlefinger's private office. 

"I was told you were busy," Oberyn said, eyes raking over Olyver with a kind of rapacious delight Olyver wished he found less exciting. "Yet here you are with all your clothes on. I thought we had discussed this."

"I do have duties outside of the bedchamber, my lord." Olyver set the quill aside and closed the ledger smoothly, though he was well aware Oberyn had no interest in its contents - and if he did, he would never choose such an obvious method of delving into them. "My lord Baelish expects me to-"

"Are we going to tell fables and lies about trust, or are you going to come here so I can touch you?" 

"I haven't decided." Olyver rose from his chair and rounded the desk, to lean one hip against it. 

"Surely money is not the issue." 

"No." 

The corner of Oberyn's lip curled up in a half-smile. "I have seen how you fuck, boy. Coyness doesn't become you." 

"You think I'm being coy?" Olyver let his own amusement show on his face just to watch the fire ignite in Oberyn's eyes. Then he looked deliberately to the door. "Where is your paramour?"

"Otherwise occupied. She does as she pleases. As do I." Oberyn moved on him then, caging him against the desk. He dragged his lips up the side of Olyver's neck, and Olyver struggled against his own stirring cock. _The work, the obligations, remember the game_ , but it was no use, Oberyn had already ripped aside their robes and was pressed against him, hot and strong. 

"You are most persuasive, my lord," Olyver said softly, not even caring that Oberyn had utterly failed to observe convention, or settle his accounts, even by making a show of placing coin on the table. Technically, the price had not been named. 

Oberyn took his mouth in a series of slow kisses, and then backed away two steps to scowl at the heavy draperies. "This place is like a cloister, with curtains and closed shutters. It's like fucking inside a scented pillow." 

Olyver looked down to hide his smile, and took hold of Oberyn's hand. "Come with me." 

He led Oberyn up the private staircase to the roof, where couches awaited the wealthy clientele who liked to look down on the rabble below without being seen, and arranged himself underneath Oberyn to serve his pleasure. There under the sky, with rain on his face and shoulders, Olyver lost track of what he was supposed to be doing, and instead gave himself over to desire. When the clouds shifted from black to gray, and the sun pushed through, insistent, Olyver pressed his cheek to Oberyn's and smiled. 

**

It did not end there. In fact, it did not end at all. Oberyn bought all of Olyver's time and returned again and again, giving of his body and taking of Olyver's until the very air between them was charged with wanting. 

They talked of many things, and of nothing, but there was only one conversation which mattered. Olyver couldn't see it at the time - couldn't hear it, for the sound of his own heartbeat and his breath panted out into the pillow. 

"He is beautiful, this one," Ellaria purred, as Oberyn fucked into him slowly, taking his time. Each drag of his cock was exquisite torture, and Olyver arched into it, delighting in Oberyn's hitched breath, the tightening of his hands on Olyver's hips. "You like him."

"I do," Oberyn confessed, dragging a flat palm down Olyver's back. He thrust in deeper, rubbed that same broad hand over Olyver's cock, and Olyver's climax overtook him with breathtaking suddenness. Oberyn growled low and thrust hard into him, coming so deep Olyver feared they might be locked together. 

"He should come with us - after," Ellaria said.

"After?" Olyver said, ever the obedient spy, though his brain was soft like slow-drizzled honey. 

"I am to be Tyrion Lannister's champion," Oberyn said, the words hot against Olyver's spine. 

"If you fight like you fuck, I pity the man Tywin Lannister throws into the ring," Olyver said, his voice muffled by the pillow. He absorbed this piece of information, but there was a small, joyful bird in his mind, singing, _after, after, after._

"I fight better than I fuck," Oberyn said, laughing. "My reputation in all areas is well-deserved." He pulled himself free of Olyver's body, and there were the soft sounds of Oberyn and Ellaria kissing, before Ellaria snuggled up against his left side, and Oberyn his right. "Would it please you to come with us, boy? To put your talents to use in freedom?"

Olyver stilled, at a momentary loss. No one had ever offered - and if they had, they would have offered the price to Littlefinger rather than asking Olyver directly. It was unheard of, and yet at that moment, Olyver could think of nothing but the warmth where the prince's hand rested on his back. To have a future...any kind of future, outside these walls... He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, then lifted his head. "Lord Baelish will not release my contract," Olyver said slowly, turning to look at Oberyn's face. Oberyn smoothed a hand down Olyver's body.

"Littlefinger is a practical man. He can be made to see reason, with enough coin." Oberyn's fingers pushed inside him smoothly. "But that is not an answer. Would it please you?"

A slave could not have ambition; a slave was nothing, and Olyver had always been a slave to one degree or another. But he could have hope, and he was sure it must have shown on his face, because Oberyn kissed him then, and it was settled. 

He was not a man who made plans for himself, only for others, but this was something new, something interesting to consider. 

"I have heard that one can rely on the rain only to come when it is least expected in Dorne," Olyver said quietly, thinking of that day on the roof. 

"The sun shines brightly there, and the sand glitters in its triumph," Oberyn said, grinning at Ellaria over Olyver's head. "A pale thing like you will have to get used to the light." 

**

On the day of trial by combat, Olyver spent his time preparing. One dispatch, carefully worded, with Oberyn's request to Littlefinger. He would send it by raven after the trial was concluded. Oberyn might have no doubt of the outcome, but Olyver knew Littlefinger better, and had written five drafts before deciding on the best approach. He also wrote a dispatch with the current accounting, ready to be sent if the answer was yes. And finally, a last dispatch to the Iron Bank, informing them of his new station. 

So engrossed was Olyver in managing his own future that he nearly missed the rippled murmurs outside the door, the gasps and cries. He set the quill down carefully and stood to manage whatever crisis had come to the establishment, but at that moment, Loras Tyrell was in his doorway. Loras, clad in finery and ceremonial armor - but of course he was; he would have been witness to the trial. Which meant it was over. But how had Loras managed to make his way there before...

"Loras," Olyver said, a welcome, an entreaty, he was not quite sure which. 

"Have you heard?" Loras asked. His face was bloodless, and the beginnings of a miserable scowl marred his pretty features. He scanned the room until he found a pitcher and goblet, and was quick to pour himself a full glass of the wine. 

Olyver looked down at the parchment on his desk - Littlefinger's desk. "I have been occupied," he said stupidly, and sat down again. 

"We all thought it was over - that Tyrion would go free - and then..." Loras swallowed the entire contents of the goblet in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The Mountain brought Oberyn down, crushed him with barely any effort. It was hideous." 

Olyver heard his voice as if from hundreds of miles away. But he was not far away and free; he was trapped there, his body shaking with the weight of truths he could not escape. "What did you say?"

"Crushed him," Loras said distinctly, with a shudder. "It was dreadful - he was so beautiful. You should have seen him fight." 

"No one has ever defeated the Mountain," Olyver said quietly. He raised his head and smiled at Loras. "You must forgive me, my lord Tyrell, but I'm afraid I have business to attend to today." 

"Are you sure?"

"Very. I will have one of the others see to you. One of our most pleasing, you have my assurances."

"All right," Loras said. A discontented frown flitted by and was quickly gone. "I know he was a frequent visitor here," Loras added. "I suppose you will want to close out his accounts."

"Yes." 

When Loras had gone, Olyver sat down slowly and tried to breathe. At the side of the room, one of his trunks was open, half-packed; inside were a few simple robes and some sandals. He had thought...but no matter what he had thought. Loras was right; it was time to close out those accounts for good. 

_Never dream_ , Littlefinger had told him once. _Dreams are for little girls and fools. Scheme instead, for the master planners are the architects of all dreams._

Olyver rubbed a hand over his eyes, erasing the vision of what could have been, and returned to the listing of accounts, of debts unpaid, of secrets shared and received. So much information, and all of it his to use as he saw fit. 

The Prince of Dorne had thought Olyver was a very clever boy, and it was true. Clever boys could shape the world. With time and patience, they might even level mountains.


End file.
